Ultimate SpiderMan Run Like Hell
by JibbaJabba
Summary: With great power comes great responsibility, but Spider-Man can't be everywhere at once. He's about to learn just how much responsibility he's prepared to take on when he's suddenly thrust into something a whole lot darker than he's ever dealt with befor
1. Chapter 1

AN: If anyone can guess where the Breadmaster is originally from, I will be hella impressed. Nobody LAWLs at the good oldies anymore. You kids today and your Invader Zim . . . !

Not baked goods, professor. Baked BADS!

Also, RLH is an extremely plot-driven story, and the story itself really isn't about sex, but there may be a scene or two here or there. Nothing too explicit, but you've been warned.

TIMELINE: This story takes place right after the events in Ultimate Spider-man Compilation #2 ("Double Trouble"), and before #3 ("Public Scrutiny"). However, liberties are occasionally taken.

ULTIMATE SPIDER-MAN: RUN LIKE HELL

CHAPTER ONE

I see a lot of things.

Weird things, to put it mildly.

Sometimes, I fancy that if people weren't too busy throwing empty bottles at me whenever I swing by, or generally blaming me for everything from flat tires to the hole in the ozone layer, people might say to me, _Spidey, what is the weirdest thing you have ever seen?_

Good question.

Because, I mean, how would you decide? Is a midget in an eight-foot tall mechanical rhinocerous get-up stranger than, say, a guy who runs around in purple insulated clothes with little vibrating pulse units strapped to his hands? Seriously. I want to know. I'll need to have some sort of scale when I'm in therapy three years from now.

But right this second?

That guy right down there on the corner. He's like, fourty. And he's throwing loaves of bread at people. I swear, some days Jersey looks _good_.

But hey, other than that, it's a beautiful day in downtown Manhattan, so for once everybody at the office is in a good mood. Including yours truly, of course, but I got to experience the crisp, fall day from an entirely different angle. Did you know the Queensboro Bridge is beautiful in the fall in the late afternoon? Especially when you see it from thirty feet in the air while you're zipping past, all that orange and gold sunlight is running along the beams. The air is starting to get a bit of a bite to it – I don't care what the weatherman says, he's not the one running around in tights – but so far it's just enough to make me appreciate the way it gets my heart pumping, and believe me, it's harder than you'd think to keep your head clear when you're flipping around so much.

It would have been even better without the added distraction of my new bakery buddy down there, because I was very nearly on time for work for once. I'm sure that's not such a big deal for some people, but some people don't have to react to gunfire on their way to work by ducking into an alley to strip down to their spandex, okay?

This whole web-swinging thing is still a little new to me, and when I drop down behind him on the sidewalk, I get that funny little swooping feeling in the pit of my belly that's not entirely unpleasant. He doesn't even notice me right away, of course. To be fair, he's a lot more focused on the police cruisers that have the intersection blocked off. I can sympathise with that – a gun in your face is pretty riveting.

"Cretins!" he yells, flinging a handful of buns that actually look pretty tasty – hey, I missed lunch, okay? -- but explode in mid-air like a series of little firecrackers. "Philistines! How dare you?! How dare you smugly masticate on your Wonderbread when it barely qualifies as 'bread' at all?! Such an affront to all that is yeasty!"

It's at this point that I start to seriously wonder if I'm hallucinating. I can't believe that this is my life now.

"Uh." Okay, so it's not much of a snappy entrance line, but really, how do you follow something like that?

In any case, he either doesn't hear or ignores me. He's hefting a loaf of brown bread now, and it's . . . ticking? "I will not cease until my demands are met and the people of this city stop worshipping false bread idols! Nothing more than stupid consumer cows ignorant of quality!"

There's a click from across the street, and then the obnoxiously loud, fuzzy, slightly distorted sound of someone speaking into a bullhorn. "Sir, put the bread down. Nobody has to get hurt. Let's talk about this."

My head swims a little. Maybe I really _am _hallucinating. I can't help but wonder if maybe I'm lying drooling happily in a hospital bed somewhere, maybe after Doctor-freaking-Octopus clocked me a good one upside the head.

Some days, days like today, I almost think I wouldn't mind.

He still hasn't seen me, and now he's got his arm cocked back to throw. The cops across the street have finally noticed me, and I see them start to point, their jaws gaping.

Great. I can't wait to see how this looks in the Daily Bugle tomorrow.

_Thwip_

The strand of webbing flies just where I want it – I'm getting a lot better at this – and my new bread friend squawks as the entire gooey mess _thwaps _against his hand, encasing it in a silvery, gleaming mass of web. He spins around, finally noticing me, and his mouth drops open in a perfect _o _of surprise that is almost prissy.

"Hey, I hate to interrupt your really great expository exchange with the police here – which isn't lame _at all _by the way – but I was thinking maybe I'd web your mouth shut and drop you in the back of that cruiser over there." I pause, giving him a moment when he only goggles at me. " . . . yes? No? Come on, work with me. I know it's hard when you're new, getting into the swing of things, but the banter is one of the first skills you need to pick up."

Click. "Spider-Man! Step away from the suspect and put your hands above your head!"

Wow. Less than two minutes. That's got to be a record for me. Usually I don't start getting blamed until after all the hard work is done.

"Are you kidding me?" I say, holding my hands up at waist-level regardless; it's not smart to antagonise the guys with the badges. After all, I was bitten by a spider, not a kevlar vest. "Guys, this . . . this relationship really isn't working out for me. Where's the trust?"

Click. "Stay where you are and don't make any sudden movements . . . hey!"

"What?" I reply, raising my hands a little more. "This isn't sudden. This is very slow, deliberate backing out of range. Seriously, guys, come on -- "

BANG.

I don't know if you've ever had a firecracker go off next to your ear before. Even the really small ones can be loud enough to be physically painful that close. Not to mention the ringing ears and the nausea that follows.

That's what this was like. Only . . . yeastier.

Great. I'd forgotten about him.

I don't know what the Breadmaster over there threw at me, but the next instant I'm flying through the air, my head suddenly feeling like it's packed with cotton. There's not much pain, but for a moment I can't catch my breath, and it's a small miracle that I miss the corner of the brick building behind me and thud relatively harmlessly to the sidewalk.

As I roll over onto my hands and knees, coughing a little and rubbing at my chest,which is starting up with a nice, dull throb that'll probably last all night, I realise the other superheroes will probably never let me live this one done. Get your ass kicked by Doctor Doom? Hey, no sweat, pal, happens to everyone. Some guy with a loaf of bread? Yeah, right.

The back of my neck suddenly begins to crawl, and I react without thinking, my legs bunching beneath me briefly, then springing almost straight up into the air. Another explosion, bigger this time, buffets my poor ear drums, and the shock wave pushing up from beneath me sends me into a mid-air somersault. The world spins around me, and below I can see the crowd that had gathered scatter like spooked geese.

And there's a donut flying at my face.

Granted, people tend to throw a lot of crap at me, but I'm not taking any chances. I fire off a web-line to the left, hear it smack against the side of a building, and yank, hard, with both hands. I have a moment of giddy exhilaration as I spring forward like an elastic band, feeling almost boneless, before I let go and drop to the ground.

Up above, the donut explodes, so I guess that's something. At least I wasn't running from a Krispy Kreme.

The Breadmaster is fumbling in a bulging sack slung on a stap over his shoulder, indignantly waving his webbed hand in the air like a bad air traffic controller. The first web I throw hits the other hand as it comes out of the sack, no doubt carrying something equally humiliating. And, as he turns to face me, the next web hits him right in the face.

"Geez! Settle down, Pillsbury." I cross the distance between us in two short leaps, fist cocked . . . and pause. The guy is sort of tottering around in a circle, shrieking with anger, arms pinwheeling and head wagging blindly from side to side, completely helpless. I look back over my shoulder.

There are still some people watching, peering over the hoods of cars and lining the far side of the street. One woman meets my gaze, and when her eyes flick from my still-upraised fist to the flailing guy beside me, she actually looks a little reproachful.

"Well, great." I mutter, dropping my hand with a sigh. "Now I'm a bully, too."

Click. Uh oh. "Spider-Man! Remain where you are!"

My head snaps around to see that, with the threat of bready annihilation disarmed, the police are now moving swiftly foreward. I like to think I catch on pretty quick to things, but also that I'm a good judge of character. I think I can read people pretty well.

Right now, their faces say JAIL.

"Sorry, what was that?" I say, snapping off a web to the opposite building, ignoring their shouts as I use it to propel myself upward. " 'Go on about your business and away from our handcuffs'? Wow, well, if you insist."

I don't actually go far – just up and over the few closest buildings to get me out of sight so I'm not tracked on my way to the Bugle. I stop for a moment on top of a post office, pulling up the top part of my costume from the waist to check the damage.

Turns out, exploding bread? Actually pretty dangerous. I grimace a little as I gently press the edges of a large, angry red welt in the middle of my chest that's starting to turn a pretty impressive mottled purple. I've got to admit, I was lucky. I really need to stop underestimating people, I know I do. A foot higher, and that stupid bread bomb might have broken my neck like a twig when it went off.

Sighing, I tuck my shirt back in. I'll have to come up with something more impressive when I tell Mary Jane how I got this particular little badge of glory.

And now I have crumbs in my underpants and I'm late for work. Great.

I hope Mary-Jane is having a better evening than I am.

School is a bitch.

Mary-Jane knows she's hardly a rebel for thinking it, but it's true. The sun has already gone down by the time she admits defeat in the school library; she can see the darkened football field from the hall windows, the sky threatening rain, as she stops at her locker to pick up her hoodie. She has to groan a little at the loss of yet another afternoon of freedom, but her history teacher has made it pretty clear that she needs to pull in at least a B on her next exam.

_I'm sorry, ma'am, I've been a little distracted lately, what with my boyfriend being a superhero and all. Why, just last week, I didn't hand in my homework because I was up late worried some guy with metal tenatcles and a bowl cut was going to pop Pete's head like a grape. Can I please have an extension?_

Yeah. Great.

The school is mostly empty by now, although she can hear the soft,wet sound of the janitor's mop coming from the art room as she passes by, along with the tinny, faint sound of somebody's portable radio. Her sneakers squeak on the freshly washed floor, and somewhere a door slams.

She wishes Peter didn't have to work tonight, not when she really wants to just unwind and let her poor, overworked brain try to relax, even if it is probably too late anyway for Aunt May to let him out of the house otherwise. Mary Jane thinks briefly of calling up Liz – it _is _a Friday – and suggesting they rent something stupid and see about putting themselves in a sugar coma for the rest of the evening. Certainly not dignified, but very satisfying.

Humming to herself, she pushes open the main doors and steps outside into the cool night air. She's about to head down the pathway and go for home when she hears the noise.

Pausing, Mary Jane stands in the circle of illumination spilling from the school's doors, twisting around uncertainly. _Noise _is really all that describes it, because her mind can't put any real specific source to the short, sharp sound that she's just heard. She waits a moment, but it doesn't repeat itself.

Ahead, the street lamps come on with a _chk-vmm _of circuits firing that Mary Jane notices only subconsciously in the way that everyone is aware of electricity.

She takes another step towards the street, then stops again, something nagging. Without thinking why, she walks into the nearby parking lot, moving slowly forward into the rows of cars belonging to faculty and maintainence crew workers pulling a late night. Overhead, the sky rumbles with a sound like faraway boulders rolling together, and a drop of rain strikes the side of her face.

Grimacing, she rubs at her cheek, shivering a little as the wind picks up. _What're you doing, dummy? Investigating noises? I'm sorry, are you part of the Scooby Gang now? It's going to rain. Go home and eat candy until you forget who invented the cotton gin._

Sure. That sounds great right about now.

Except . . . if she's really honest with herself, that wasn't just a noise. In fact, didn't it maybe sound a little more . . . like . . .

. . . a scream?

She freezes for a moment at the idea . . . but only a moment, snorting a little at her own imagination and rolling her eyes with a smile. _That's the problem with my generation, _she thinks wryly, _too much Jennifer Love Hewitt and Neve Campbell getting menaced by butcher knives. We start seeing oogy-boogies everywhere. Mom was right._

As she turns to go, however, she catches a moment out of the corner of her eye. At the other end of the parking lot, near the south entrance, a very human shadow moves languidly around, bending towards something on the ground.

Mary Jane opens her mouth to call out a greeting, but the words never make it past her lips. They die a slow, whispering death in her throat, and all that emerges is a low wheeze of air as her eyes widen slightly.

The hair on the back of her neck is standing up.

Something is wrong.

She isn't sure why, but she suddenly feels terribly exposed, and her heart is racing in her breast. Her grip has tightened on her backpack's shoulder straps, and for a moment it's like she's turned to stone. She doesn't move. She doesn't blink. She barely even breathes.

She's always wondered what it would be like to have Peter's spider-sense, that little tingle he's described whenever something is wrong. She knows it's saved his life at least once or twice. And, admittedly, even with the more fantastic aspects of his life, sometimes she's wondered if, in part, it isn't more good old basic instinct. Intuition, maybe.

Whatever the case, right now her own Spidey Sense is tingling. No, if she's truthful about it to herself, it's jangling, a deafening cacophony of sudden nerves and instinct in her brain that makes her catch her breath. She thinks, distantly, that this is how a rabbit in a field must feel when it sees a hawk's shadow pass over.

Without pausing to think why, Mary Jane drops to the ground onto her tummy and shuffles forward quickly on her elbows until she's beneath the nearest car. The movement is surprisingly graceful and nearly soundless, but she feels clumsy, stupid and slow, and to her ears she seems to be making far too much noise. Her clothing sounds like sandpaper abrading the pavement of the parking lot, the zippers on her backpack as she pulls it in behind her seem to be jangling abnormally loudly, and even her breathing seems to be at least as loud as a furnace bellows. She hopes the rain is enough to muffle any tell-tale sound.

The pavement is unnaturally cold. Immediately, the chill begins to leech it's way through her clothing with something akin to gleeful malevolence. Between one heartbeat and the next she's shivering, where previously the night had only seemed cool and refreshing with the rain. Her hands, clenched up at her sides, feel numb and stiff. Her breath rises before her frightened eyes like tiny ghosts in the dark, quivering on every exhalation.

For a long minute, nothing happens. The sky opens up a little more and the steady tattoo on the metal of the car Mary huddles under becomes one continual _ssshhhhrrrrmmmm_ of sound, clear drops falling off the bumper to land in front of her face. Maybe she should feel foolish right about now, but instead she's shocked to find herself near tears. She gasps a little, blinking her eyes furiously in an attempt to keep them at bay, and makes a miserable, soft choking sound. God, she feels so small right now. So young. She hates herself for it, knows she should be trying to break out of that damned "Superhero's Girlfriend" stigma of needing to be rescued, but damnit, right now what she thinks of is Peter Parker dropping down on a line of webbing. Even more than Peter, she wants her mother right now, but she'd settle for anybody, anybody normal to break the unnatural, eerie spell that seems to have fallen over the evening.

A pair of dirty sneakers steps in front of the car.

Mary Jane squeezes her eyes shut, suppressing a low moan of fear, the skin on the back of her neck crawling, but when she opens them again, the shoes are still there. Maybe they were white once, but now they're dirty gray with mud and sodden with rainwater, the laces limp and untied like dead earthworms. She realises that she can hear them, too, whoever is out there. Whoever they are, they're breathing through their mouth; a horrible sort of chuffling, wet and short breaths that remind her of someone struggling with very bad congestion.

There is something smooth and hard clutched in her right fist and she awkwardly, breathlessly brings it up by her shoulder where she can turn her head enough to examine it without making any noise. It's her pencil, she's unsurprised to see, her favourite one, the one with the stupid little bird head over the eraser that Liz gave her a while back. The fluff of feathers is shocking pink, and the eyes are cartoonishly wide and goggled, but she doesn't care how stupid it looks. She's more interested in the point. Wondering if it's sharp enough . . . to . . .

Well. Sharp enough if it comes to that, anyway.

_You're being ridiculous, _some part of her brain is yammering away, _someone is out there with a bad head cold looking for their car or something and you're hiding under one like you've been chased with a chainsaw. _

A drop of blood falls to the pavement in front of her nose.

Mary-Jane's eyes are huge and unblinking, luminous in the gloom.

Another drop. A part of her brain notes how much brighter real blood is than the fake stuff they use in the movies.

A voice above her, low and breathy, but decidedly male.

"_Alas . . . my love . . . you do me wrong . . . to cast . . . me off . . . dis-cour-teous-leeee . . . ._" The feet in front of Mary-Jane shuffle slightly, turning to face the opposite direction. " . . . _for I . . . have loved . . . you well . . . and long . . . delighting . . . in your . . . com-pan-eee . . ._"

SPLAT.

Inside her head, Mary-Jane is screaming when the dark, wet _something _slaps wetly to the ground in front of her. Something darkly red that seems to shimmer and quiver in the faint light, perhaps about the size of her own fist.

Something she might have seen in an anatomy textbook somewhere, perhaps?

_Go. Go NOW._

The thought doesn't even have time to finish as Mary-Jane is scrambling backwards, abraiding her palms painfully on the ground and not noticing. She's making too much noise, she knows, and the back of her hoodie catches on something on the underside of the car, forcing her to spend a few precious breaths jerking back and forth like an animal until she tears free. Then suddenly she's on her hands and knees in the rain, gasping, hair hanging in her face, and she senses rather than sees the dim shape of someone moving towards her around the front of the car.

She doesn't see their face, whoever they are. She's moving too fast, up and onto her feet almost like a sprinter breaking from the starting line, and then she's running down the line of parked cars, arms pumping at her sides, hood falling back and her hair streaming out behind her. She's always considered herself to be in fairly good shape, but then she's never had to do anything like this before, and she understands now with perfect, primal clarity that running for one's life is quite different than going out for track or making the bus.

For a few moments, she actually stops thinking, stops feeling, even the awkward thump of her backpack between her shoulder-blades and the edge of a book inside digging painfully into her spine. All she knows is the slap of her shoes on the ground, the increasingly harsh drag of air in and out of her lungs, the fingers of wind weaving through her hair. Her heart is racing, adrenaline speeding throughout her nerves and throwing everything around her into brilliant, crystal clarity. The parking lot entrance draws rapidly nearer in front of her, the brightly lit street beyond promising some sort of sanctuary, like throwing on the bedroom lights after a bad dream.

The toe of her right shoe thuds into something and she pitches forward.

The squawk of surprise and fear that leaps from her lips is more than a little undignified as she takes two huge, running steps forward to catch herself. For a moment she simply can't move; a stitch takes advantage of her momentary stillness to sieze her side like a terrier with a rat, and her thighs tremble with exertion. Reflexively, she risks a look backwards to see what she's tripped on.

Her jaw drops open, and it seems to her as though all the breath leaves her body in one great sigh. She can actually _feel _the colour drop out of her face. Her backpack slips from her suddenly slack hands to clump to the ground, forgotten.

The girl lying on the pavement with rainwater in her eyes and upturned palms isn't anyone Mary Jane knows, except maybe another face filling out the crowded school halls between classes. She doesn't recognise the cute upturned nose, or the bouncy black pigtails with their streaks of punkish pink, or the "Have a day" button pinned to her collar.

Mary Jane Watson has never seen a body before, and it leaves her empty and unfathomably cold inside.

There's _red _on the ground, a lot of it, washed into watery streaks by the rain and slithering towards the gutter in the road. Mary Jane doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see where it's all coming from, but her eyes drag themselves downward, away from the girl's face and towards her chest.

_Mary Jane is six, and she's standing barefoot on the docks at the cabin her family vacationed in that summer. She's crying in great, whooping gasps while her father ignores her, on one knee on the wooden planks while he methodically guts the still-gasping fish he's just caught. The flash of the blade is very bright in the summer sun, and the white belly seems to simply unzip, supple flesh sighing back to reveal the glistening innards._

Mary Jane is gagging, her belly hitching painfully as she staggers backwards, but this isn't what brings her crashing back to reality.

The rain has tapered off, and footsteps are coming her way.

Her head snaps up and she stares back the way she came, heart hammering crazily enough that she thinks distantly that she might faint. There's a shape moving towards her along the rows of cars, pace slow and methodical, but coming steadily closer. Something metallic winks at her in the dark.

_Stop standing around you stupid fucking bitch! _Her mind suddenly screams at her. This voice is hard, take-no-bullshit-or-prisoners angry, and it hits her like being slapped across the face. _Move your ass and RUN!_

Gasping, Mary Jane turns on her heel and flees into the street, her breath whooping painfully in her lungs. Without even thinking, she's running towards the police station, more than three blocks away.

Behind her, in the dark, the footsteps continue their easy pace forward, even when she disappears down the street. Dirty sneakers plod up to the broken girl lying on the pavement, a few solitary rain drops still falling to jump in the puddles around her. For a minute, everything is quiet and still.

Then a hand reaches down to the discarded backpack lying next to the body. One of the zippers has come partially open, and a hard, laminated piece of plastic is poking out.

Student ID.

Mary Jane Watson's smiling face, her hair in plastic barretts.

Below that?

Her address.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still don't own any Marvel property. Don't sue.

AN: As some of you probably noticed, there's some italics formatting missing from the first chapter that makes some things a little hard to follow, I'm sure. I'm still getting used to how files work around here, so I'll go back and fix that ASAP. Also, over 200 hits? Holy crap. That's a lot for a story with little going on right now. Things start picking up after this chapter.

CHAPTER 2

It's busy here, as usual. Although I have yet to hear someone yell "Stop the presses!" or "Copy!" the Daily Bugle's offices are still actually pretty close to what you see in the movies. People don't _walk _around here. Everyone's always running, always handing off paper to somebody else, always rattling away at the keyboard. It's actually pretty invigorating, even if all I usually really have to do is sit there in the middle of it like a monkey waiting for the newest batch of images to upload to the server so I can code them in. I think Aunt May hopes some of this crazy, can-do energy I'm around all the time wears off on me. I wouldn't mind it either, but I want it to be even faster the next time I have to duck around mechanical tentacles, and she just wants me to clean my room.

Sometimes I don't think I'm appreciated.

Today's been pretty slow for me, regardless of how busy everyone else is, and I feel a little guilty about it. I've been here for over two hours, and all I officially had to do was copy and paste a chunk of tomorrow's headline text into the main body of the website, tweak the display prices a little, and upload and place the newest pictures of Spider-Man – nee Peter Parker – which are thankfully absent of any baked goods, at least for now. I'm on the clock until nine, since it's usually busier on Fridays, so I've spent a lot of time organising the pictures on the server over and over again, first into alphabetical order, then numerical, and finally chronological. By eight o'clock, I'm thinking of changing my secret identity to Unaccomplished Boy.

Mr Jameson storms past, pausing only to yell at one of the mailroom workers for "loitering", a dirty gray streamer of cigar smoke chasing his back like a viper. If I lean back in my chair a little, I can see Ben Urich leaning against his cubicle farther down, talking furiously into a cell phone while making notes on a little spiral pad. Across the room, Betty Brant is perched on the edge of the coffee table with a stack of files as tall as my hip beside her.

Everyone's got something going on right now except for me.

I'm halfway out of my chair on my way to Mr Jameson's office, daring showing up on his radar to see if he has anything else I can do, when the office line in Mr Urich's cubicle rings.

I don't know why I stop when I hear that, but I do. Some faint tingle of precognition that makes me turn towards him.

For whatever reason, a lot of people don't call the front desk when they call the Bugle. Ms Brant said once that people just start dialing extensions in the hope of getting someone who actually works there rather than the secretary who usually brushes people off. Mr Urich pauses in his notes and frowns down at his desk a moment, before sighing into his cell. "Okay, listen, someone's on my line. I've got to go, okay? . . . yes, we'll talk about it when you get here . . . you too . . . 'bye." He looks vaguely troubled and annoyed as he drops his cell into his pocket and plucks his desk phone from it's cradle, tucking it in between his neck and shoulder. "Ben Urich." he says, frowning distractedly at the pad in his hand.

There's that prickly feeling between my shoulders again.

For a moment, Mr Urich says nothing, but the hand holding the pad suddenly drops to his side and his head comes up. His brow furrows, and he turns to look at me. " . . . what? Yes, he's here, who's . . . yes, right. Okay. Calm down, here he is." He beckons to me, expression troubled, holding out the phone. "It's for you, Peter. Someone named Mary Jane. Isn't that your girlfriend?"

I cross the distance between us in two leaping strides and snatch the phone out of his hand. Suddenly, my heart is making it difficult to breathe because it's beating in my throat. Mary Jane has never called me at work before, and that look on Mr Urich's face is bothering me. Would he look like that if MJ was just calling to ask if I wanted to go to the mall tomorrow?

iHe's looking at me like you look at a kid who's just had his dog run over, oh my God, Mary, Aunt MAY . . . /i

"Hello?" I say, my voice sounding strangled. I'm vaguely aware that Mr Urich is still watching me, and now Miss Brant has turned to frown in my direction too. "Hello? Mary Jane? What's wrong?"

"_Peter_!" One word, emerging in a gaspy near-scream, and then she lapses into sobs.

I've heard Mary Jane cry before. Once when she fell down the school steps and sprained her ankle, and again when she accidentally ran her bike into her dad's car and broke off the side mirror. But I'd never heard her cry like this before. I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone cry like this before.

For a full minute, I only listen, first as she gets herself under control, then as she tells me, in a series of spurts between sobs, what happened. The strangest feeling comes over me, like my body is turning to stone from the bottom up. I look down, half expecting to see my legs gone, and it seems strange to me that they're still there – they're so damned inumb/i.

Miss Brant has come over now, her mouth open to speak, and Mr Urich holds up a hand, cutting her off. I register her expression of indignant anger without caring. "Okay," I hear myself saying, "just . . . stay there, okay? I'll be there, right away."

"Pete --" she cries, sounding broken and so damned small.

"I'm coming." I hang up the phone and spin around to find Mr Urich standing there. My head is pounding, and everything sounds muffled, like I'm wrapped in cotton. "I have to go. My . . . Mary Jane is at the police station. Something happened."

Miss Brant's eyes widen and one hand rises to cover her mouth. Mr Urich only nods. "Come on. You tell me where, and I'll give you a ride."

I don't even hesitate. I could probably get there faster by web, but I can't risk getting side-tracked, and a part of me knows it would be dangerous and stupid to be up in the air tonight with my head suddenly a mess. "Yeah. Yes. Okay. Thank you."

"Betty," Mr Urich says as he snatches his keys off his desk, "tell Jonah I had to take Peter on a personal emergency, okay? If he's got a problem with it, he can call my cell."

I don't hear Miss Brant's reply. I'm already out the door and headed for the parking garage.

Mary Jane . . .

I can't tell you much about what happened after that because I honestly don't remember much of anything other than the sick throb of horror in the pit of my suddenly empty stomach, and Mary Jane's sweet, innocent face taking up my mind's eye. Distantly, I'm aware of Mr Urich driving maybe a little faster than the speed limit would allow, and if I glance to the left I can see him there in the driver's seat; he looks grim and almost ghostly in the green backglow from the instrument panel.

It's not fast enough. I know Mary Jane is with the police, somewhere brightly lit and full of people, but that doesn't change my fear, my guilt, that she was alone somewhere where another girl, someone just like her, was . . .

Mr Urich takes a corner too fast, and the compact little car rocks slightly on it's wheels, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is Mary Jane Watson, the girl who never hurt anybody in her entire life, running from some maniac.

Running without me there to protect her.

I know she's going to say it's not my fault. And I know I don't have any crazy X-Men mind powers, so I couldn't have exactly called Mr Jameson today to say I wouldn't be in because I needed to hang around my high school and watch out for murders. But it doesn't matter. The media and the public knows it too, and I can already see tomorrow's revised headline in my head, black and white letters towering over me, so real I can see the grain of the paper they were printed on:

QUEENS TEENAGER KILLED IN SCHOOL PARKING LOT, ANOTHER BARELY ESCAPES.

WHERE WAS SPIDER-MAN?

"Peter."

I actually jump when Mr Urich reaches over to shake my shoulder. Great. Spider-sense and nerves like an old cat, that's me. He doesn't seem to notice, however. "We're here."

That surprises me again, and I have to look around to verify that it's true. For the first time, I notice the familiar settings around me, the exterior of the local precinct I've walked past on my way to school every day for the past several years. We've made good time according to the clock on the dash – _great _time – and it occurs to me that he must have broken any number of traffic laws to get me here, and it's a miracle we weren't pulled over. It's about time somebody up there took a shine to me.

I fumble for the door handle and then hesitate, looking back at him. "Mr Urich, I – thanks, um, thank you, you have no idea -- "

He waves me off with a slight smile and nods past me. "You go on to your girl now, Peter." he says simply. "I'll be here in case you need a ride."

I could have told him that Aunt May is probably hurtling towards here at meteoric speeds right now with Mrs Watson, but I'm too grateful, and too hurried, to get the words out, so I only nod dumbly and spill myself out onto the sidewalk, taking the precinct steps at a run.

The local station is small. I know in the movies police departments are always these big towering stone edifices, with cavernous offices and marble floors, and big oak desks for the sergeants to peer over like giants, but trust me that that isn't how it goes. Not in Queens, anyway. I've never actually been in here, and the first thing I notice isn't the pokey little desk with the sleepy looking officer behind it or the creaky ceiling fan turning overhead, but the smell of urine.

I hesitate briefly inside the door, looking around, feeling my stomach sink more and more. It seems impossible that Mary Jane could be safe here. The paint is peeling and the ventilation is noisy, and there's a man dressed in rags and vomit nodding asleep on the bench nearest the door. iThis/i is where the city's finest go? The man behind the desk looks up at me, eyes bloodshot and shadow stippling his jaw.

"Are you Peter Parker? I'm sorry, but she's gone. There was nothing we could do."

Except that's not right. His mouth doesn't match what I'm hearing. The world tilts a little under my feet, and I force myself to take a breath. _Let's not have a panic attack, Mr Parker_. "What? What did you say?"

"I said, can I help you, son?" he repeats, giving me a kindly, mildly exasperated look.

"_Peter_!"

I turn towards the sound in time to catch Mary Jane as she throws herself at me. I can only catch a glimpse of her wide, shocked eyes and the tear tracks on her cheeks before she buries her face in my chest.

_Thank you, thank you, God or whoever, oh my God, Mary Jane . . . _

I didn't realise how certain I was that she was going to be hurt bad or gone until I had my arms around her. I felt weak with relief and was almost ashamed at how hard I crushed her against me. It probably hurt – I don't know my own strength these days – but she only cries and hugs me back harder. I run my hands over her back in something like disbelief, trying to make sure she's whole by touch, sliding my hands into the softness of her hair. "I'm so glad you're okay." I say hoarsely, and she cries harder in response. I can feel her nails digging into my back through my shirt, but I don't care.

"Excuse me."

Startled, I look up. I don't recognise the man standing in front of me, but I recognise the uniform for what it is, and the badge pinned to his shirt. I look at him critically, openly, and he lets me with a patient expression. He's tall and thin, but his build doesn't suggest frailty to me. He's probably in his forties or so, with more lines in his face than another man of the same age in a different job, and his short, blonde hair is mussed. There's kindness in his face, though, and his blue eyes are clear and steady. If this is the man who was watching over MJ until I got here, then I'm glad.

"Mr Parker, right?" he says. He smiles, not patronisingly, and I like him even more. "She's been waiting for you. I'm Officer Trent. She's had quite the hard night, I'm sorry to say, but that's one brave young lady you've got there."

Mary Jane only sniffles and doesn't look up. I cradle the back of her head and give her another squeeze, finally feeling my heart begin to slow down. "You don't have to tell me twice."

He nods and hooks his thumbs into his belt. "We've gotten hold of her mother – your Aunt, too, she insisted – and they'll be here directly. In the meantime, you kids want to step into my office here? Nobody'll bother you." He pauses and looks past me. " . . . help you, sir?"

Twisting around, I realise Mr Urich has followed me in. He's standing awkwardly off to one side with his hands in his pockets and gives me an apologetic look, as though he's walked in on something private. "Oh, that's . . . " I stop short of giving his full name. You don't have to be a genius to know reporters usually aren't welcome around police stations at times like these. "That's Ben. He works where I do. He gave me a ride here from the city."

Trent smiles at me again. "Got a job? Good for you. Came running when she called, too." he adds with approval. "Wish my boy was as well-minded as you."

"You go on and wait with her, Peter." Mr Urich says. "I'll wait here until her mother gets here."

I look at him again, feeling another wave of dumb gratitude. Sometimes, adults really go above and beyond, and I can appreciate it even more coming from Mr Urich, because he had no reason to do what he did for me tonight. It seems impossible that he's part of the same species as Mr Jameson, and for the first time I look at him as a friend rather than just another authority figure. He must understand, at least a little, because he smiles and nods a little at me as I lead Mary Jane into the nearby office.

I wait until it's clear Officer Trent isn't going to follow us in before I gently move Mary Jane back a pace so I can look at her. "MJ, what happened?" I ask, keeping my voice low. I know enough about police procedure to know they probably don't want her talking about specifics.

She gives me a miserable look. There are dark shadows until her eyes that weren't there when I saw her after school today, and her skin has a waxy, pale pallor that I don't like. "God, Pete, it was awful." she whispers, hands clenched together. "You don't even know . . . that poor girl, and I . . . I just hid, and then I ran." Tears well up in her eyes again, and I kiss her cheek quickly.

"No, MJ, don't. You did the right thing."

She gives a trembling sigh and rubs her eyes with her fists like a small child. "I don't know. I just . . . I just froze, Peter. Maybe I could have helped her, but I was so scared . . . "

"Hey," I say gruffly, "I'd be scared too, and you're talking to a guy who's brave enough to wear tights in New Jersey."

She doesn't smile, but it was kind of a lame joke anyway. "I just keep seeing her." she says. "That poor girl. I don't even know her name, but . . . God, Peter, I feel like someone just killed my best friend. Isn't that stupid?"

I hug her again, fiercely. "No, Mary Jane. It's not. You're beautiful like that."

She sighs again and relaxes into my arms a little. I notice, seemingly for the first time, how small she is. It seems amazing to me that she doesn't get carried away by the wind. I take a deep breath and catch the faint scent of watermelon from her skin, some sort of body mist she likes, and suddenly I'm angry. Who would do it? Who would try to hurt someone like this, someone so small and sweet and kind?

As if she feels the change in me, Mary Jane pulls back a little to look up at me. "Officer Trent says the police are already there. I . . . I dropped my backpack, but they found it." She hesitates, chewing on her lower lip. " . . . you should go, too."

"MJ! Forget it. I'm not -- "

"No!" she says, suddenly fierce. She grips my arms with surprising strength. There are still tears in her eyes, but she looks angry now. "No, you don't understand, Peter, you didn't see it. You didn't see her. Someone hurt that girl, and I need to know that everything is being done to catch whoever did."

"The police -- "

"Yeah, but they might not see things you would." Her grip tightens and she looks at me pleadingly. "Please, Peter. Just go check it out. It's what heroes do."

She might as well have punched me in the gut. I actually sag a little. "Okay." I sigh. "But you have to promise me you'll stay here --"

"I will -- "

" -- and you have to keep Aunt May calm." I add grimly.

Someone knocks on the door and we both jump. Mary Jane actually gives a little scream. I hurriedly cross to the door and open it to find Mr Urich standing there. "Sorry." He says quietly. "I just wanted to ask if there was anything else I could do?"

I hesitate only briefly. "Actually, Mary Jane is starving. I guess she's really worn out. I was going to run to the McDonald's down the street and grab her something to eat. Would you mind waiting with her?"

He frowns a little at me, and I cringe inside. After everything he's done tonight, I feel like an ass for lying to him. "Peter, I don't know that it's a good idea for you to go out alone. Why don't I just -- "

"No, it's okay." I say quickly. Then, lowering my voice in a sudden burst of inspiration. "She, uh, needs me to pick up some female things for her too."

It's a stupid lie, but it does the trick. He blinks at me, then sighs. "Your Aunt is going to kill me. Just promise me you won't take any shortcuts through alleys or anything, allright?"

It's easy to promise that.

Why cut through an alley when I can go right up the walls and over the roof?

Kids. Ben's never been good with kids. Especially teenagers. Sometimes he suspects they're a whole different species, his own childhood not withstanding.

He sits silently on the bench across from Peter Parker's girlfriend, the sad looking little red-head with the downcast eyes. She must be around Parker's age – what, fifteen, sixteen? -- but she looks so much younger with her hair caught up in those little smiley barretts, and her face scrubbed clean of make-up and puffy from crying. She doesn't look at him, instead studying the scuffed tile floor between her sneakers, occasionally sniffing softly.

_Someone just like her _his mind whispers wearily, _someone just like her lying dead in a parking lot tonight._

It's a mark of how much his job and this city wears on him that the thought only provokes a distant kind of sadness overshadowed by tired resignation. After all, how many times does this happen in a year in New York? A month? How many little girls snatched off the streets and found in ditches, or, worse, in their own homes? The first time he'd reported on such a case – and God, doesn't that seem like decades ago now? -- he'd been shocked and horrified. He's still disgusted by it, but he's more troubled by the fact that everyone, himself included, seems to have accepted things like this as just another day in New York.

Ben can see it in the eyes of the officers that pass by the room occasionally. Sometimes they glance in, their expressions mildly concerned, but more often than not, they move by without a look. Their faces say, _This is nothing new. _Their faces say, _We've got other things to take care of._

But the worst thing Ben sees in their faces is the look that says _We see this all the time._

_When did this ever become the norm? _He wonders tiredly, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He can feel a dull ache setting in behind his eyes. _When did we ever decide it was okay to live in a city like this? What the hell is wrong with us?_

His notepad is right where he always carries it, in the breast pocket of his jacket. Tomorrow, Jonah is going to yell him into the ground for not trying to get an exclusive interview from the broken little person sitting across from him, but Ben can't bring himself to do it. On nights like these, all he wants to do is go home and try to forget about the asylum outside his door for a while. He needs to decompress in the worst way, and wonders if Emily will be home tonight.

"Um . . . "

Startled, Ben looks up. The girl – Mary Jane, wasn't it? -- is looking at him now . . . sort of. Her eyes meet his only briefly before dropping shyly away, and she rubs absently at one arm. "What is it, honey?" he asks. "Do you want me to see if I can find you a drink of water or a soda?"

"No . . . " she says softly. "I was . . . I was just wondering if you knew a song?"

" . . . what?" He's sure he must have misheard her for a moment, his overworked brain misfiring and making the wrong connections.

"At least . . . I think it's a song." Her brow furrows a little. "I've never heard it before tonight."

Something in Ben's mind wakes up and begins jangling, softly at first, and then louder. Reporter's instinct, maybe, that crazy itch that always lets him know when he's on to something. His fingers twitch, and he curls them into loose fists before he can reach for his notepad. He's not going to do it –n he's not going to be that asshole, asking her probing, vile questions after everything she's just gone through, not tonight, Jameson be damned. "How does it go?" he asks quietly, trying to keep the keenness out of his voice.

For a long moment, she doesn't say anything more. Then she begins to sing in a voice that's barely more than a whisper, soft and slightly unsteady. "Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to . . . to cast me off discourteously . . . for I have loved you . . . something . . . um . . . in your company." Colour flames in her cheeks and she gives him an embarassed look.

Ben hardly notices. His brain has come all the way awake now, all cylinders firing, all pistons working, Houston, we are a-go. "That's an old song. Old ballad. It's called 'Greensleeves'. Why, honey?"

Her eyes close, squeeze shut, really. "Like . . . a love ballad?"

"That's the theory. Why? Where have you heard it?"

A little shiver runs through her, although to Ben it looks more like a shiver of revulsion rather than a chill. "It's what he sang." she says, her voice suddenly toneless. "I heard him.

"He was singing a love song after he killed her."

I've never been to the school at night before, and I really don't like it. It doesn't have anything to do with the way the chill in the air is sinking right through my costume as I crouch on top of the bleachers, and surprisingly it isn't even the police cars parked everywhere on the street, alternating red and blue light bathing the brick walls.

The whole building seems different somehow. Everything does in the dark. It seems taller, bigger, like something out of a bad gothic novel. All it needs is a lightning bolt to light it from behind. Below me, I can hear the electronic buzz of radios, and over a dozen men and women in uniforms are moving back and forth, in and out of shadow.

I'm less interested in them than in the outline on the ground at the entrance to the parking lot.

It's just so damned bizarre. The body is long gone, carted off by the coroner, but that outline of white tape is still there like an accusation. The ground is stained red in several places, big ugly splotches like Rorschach images in the dark.

I have to wonder what I'm doing here. I know what MJ wants me to do, but really – what the hell is a teenager in spandex going to accomplish that the forensics team won't? I leap soundlessly over their heads to the top of the gym and crawl towards the back of the building, hugging the cold roof with my body. I don't even know what I'm looking for, nevermind that if I'm spotted things are going to look very bad for me in the public eye.

There's nobody back here yet, around the football field. I guess the police are probably inside interrogating the cleaning crew. The goalposts look like giants in the dark, shadows sliding over them as the moon disappears and reappears from behind the shifting clouds.

Why did he do it, I wonder? Why did he kill that girl? He couldn't have thought she had any money worth taking. I can't wrap my head around it, and that makes it worse. Without a motive, it's just meanness for meanness' sake. It doesn't make any sense. It's like finding a rattlesnake in a sandbox.

I'm trying to think of what to do next – anything that might actually be useful (Hey, it's Unaccomplished Boy again! Welcome back!) -- when I hear the shuffling from my left.

I tense up immediately, but my Spider-sense doesn't react. Still, there's no mistaking human movement right now. All my senses are wired, and now that I'm listening for it, I can hear soft murmurs coming from the little alley behind the school's art building. Moving quickly, I slip across the rooftop and crane my head over the edge, fully prepared to find a maniac disposing evidence.

Instead?

_Oh, no way._

I've had my fair share of awkward moments at school. Once, I walked into the boy's bathroom and had to backpedal because there was some guy in there with his hand up a girl's skirt.

This is like that, only a lot weirder.

There's a girl down there, half naked in the moonlight. I freeze as I realise it, the gleam of her white flesh like headlights to a deer. She's still wearing a pair of denim shorts, and there's a flimsy piece of white material on the ground next to her feet that's probably her shirt, but the rest of her is bared to the world. Her breasts are small and high, nipples tiny and erect in the cold, and her whole body seems to have a supernatural glow in the darkness.

She's not alone, of course. I can't see much of the guy she's with other than the occasional flash of some sort of yellow clothing as he shifts in the darkness, standing over her with his hands on her hips, head bent into the hollow of her throat. The shadows make her face seem alien and unrecogniseable, and all I can make out is the curve of her lips, painted a lush cherry red, smiling in the dark.

"Ooh!" she gasps in a high, breathy voice. "Oh, that's nice." She runs her hands up into the hair of her lover, and giggles when his hands drop down to the swell of her buttocks, cupping them in his hands and squeezing them possessively.

I can't believe it. Maybe I'm behind the times, but I never thought of behind the school at night as being particularily sexy. Especially with a murder investigation going on, although I guess it's possible that they haven't heard anything yet, as far away as they are.

"Oooh, you're bad." she murmurs as his hands slip down the back of her shorts, disappearing beneath the material. She rocks on the balls of her feet and groans a little. "You like that ass, baby? You want it?" The motions of her hips are lewd, exaggerated lust. She arches her back and it thrusts her breasts into the air, the pale pink of her nipples the only colour on her body, and the moonlight falls across her face.

And that's when I recognise the girl.

At that moment, Doctor Octopus could have walked past me singing Henry the Eighthat the top of his lungs, beaten the snot out of several pedestrians and flipped a car over on me, and I still wouldn't have noticed.

For a moment, I'm sure I must be mistaken. It's just too _weird_. That feeling of unreality washes over me again – just one of those days I guess – and I wonder dimly if everyone in the city got some sort of memo today to go completely batshit crazy that I missed.

There can't be any other excuse for seeing Liz Allen topless in the alley behind PS 117.

Now that I've identified her, I wonder how I couldn't have seen it was her immediately. I mean, how often do I see that crop of bouncy orange hair every day? Below, she giggles again, the sound high-pitched and breathy. "We're gonna get caaaaaaaught!" she whispers, the sound carrying up to me.

My first thought is, _They can't be here. I've got to get them out of here. Whoever hurt that girl could be hanging around._

My second thought is, _Mary Jane can never know I saw Liz without her top on, because I will never hear the end of it. _

_Get out of here! Do you want the next headline to be SPIDER-MAN SPIES ON LOCAL LOVE BIRDS. EXPERTS SAY CREEPY LONER FACTOR TAKES A HUGE LEAP!_

But I can't. My limbs feel distant and unresponsive. The shadowy figure – why is that yellow jersey so familiar – doesn't say anything, but hands come up to cup her breasts, squeezing and kneading the pale flesh in the moonlight. Her eyelids drop lower and she giggles again, almost drunkenly, as her small hands come up to rest on his shoulders. There's a slow flush creeping over her flesh.

It's strange. I know it's Liz, but she looks different somehow, changed from the snarky, cute little teen I know from school, the one who has that disdainful nose-wrinkle down to a fine art. The person below me isn't concerned with trig homework or who's wearing what to the dance. The expression on her face is one I've never seen her wear before – hungry and wanting and somehow . . . older. I know, I know . . . sex doesn't make you any more of an adult, but that's the only thing I can think of to describe that look on her face, like a woman who's completely sure of herself and what she wants.

Her lover bends his head towards her breasts, obscuring my view, and her head drops back. The groan she lets out is low and deep but somehow also one of the most feminine things I've ever heard, and it prickles the skin along the back of my neck in a not entirely unpleasant way. Her hips are moving now, still clad in their tight denim, rocking in slow circles against the person bent over her. It's an unabashedly lewd motion, and as I watch she shifts position to straddle his thigh, grinding herself against it with a languid wantonness that's almost painful to watch.

Dimly, I wonder what that's like. Whether her breasts would be cool to the touch from the night air, if they'd feel as soft and pliant as they look under my fingers. Whether I'd be able to feel the heat from her through our clothing against my thigh like that.

_I wonder how Mary Jane would look like that, how she'd sound if I had her breasts in my hands?_

_Mary Jane is going to skin you alive and burn the body, you loser._

I actually gasp a little. It's like being doused in a shower of freezing water, and I'm actually grateful for it. What the hell am I doing? Am I campaigning for Worst Boyfriend of the Year tonight?

They're still at it, but I don't feel that dreamy pull anymore. My face is burning under my mask, and I duck behind the wall, taking a deep breath and cupping my hands in front of my mouth to create a sound baffle. No way are they seeing Spider-Man right now. My life is bad enough without any pervert rumours, thank you very much.

"HEY. IS SOMEONE BACK HERE?"

It isn't exactly the booming voice from the heavens, but it does the trick. Liz actually utters a short, sharp scream of shock -- "Oh my _gawd-- ! _" -- and I hear the sound of mad scuffling. I dare a look around the edge of the wall in time to see Liz go running past, her shirt back on, moving like a spooked gazelle. And, after a heartbeat, her friend goes running after her. I can hear him swearing, and he takes one terrified look over his shoulder for any pursuers, the moonlight throwing his face into perfect relief for an instant before he's gone.

For a few minutes afterward, everything is quiet. I stay where I am, leaned against the side of the building, staring up at the sky with it's weight of thunderheads slowly disappearing. Far away, on the other side of the school grounds, the police are still moving around. I can hear the occasional blat of a siren, doors slamming, voices raised.

There's nothing else to be found here tonight. If I could have done it without getting shot at, I would have gone over there and told them that. Whoever killed that girl is gone at least for now and hopefully for good. And, most importantly, Mary Jane is safe. It's a shitty thing to think, especially considering that some other poor girl is gone now, but I'm so glad she wasn't hurt it makes me physically weak.

Back at the station, Aunt May and Mrs Watson have probably shown up by now. As I push away from the wall, I make a mental note to stop at the nearest McDonalds to grab something for Mary Jane to help my alibi. Mary will be disappointed, I know. I could see it in her face when she told me she wanted me to go; she wants me to come back like some knight in shining armor, to be able to tell her I slew the dragon and everything is all better.

I sigh a little, walking to the edge of the building and stretching some lingering stiffness out of my arms. I won't be able to tell her that, but at least the night is over.

And, of course, I can't tell her the other thing either, no matter how funny I might find it.

Flash Thompson groping Liz Allen behind the school?

Yeah. There's definitely something crazy in the water tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Ultimate Aunt May is totally made of win. She's seriously awesome. Action-wise, this chapter is very limited. I made the decision to chop it in half so I could focus on the huge leap in the next chapter where the title of the story comes into play. I really wanted to write this scene with Aunt May, but I couldn't really fit her and the darker, panicked tone in chapter four together. I thought Peter should have a nice, pleasant morning before things get really bad for him.

As a sort of warning, this chapter does introduce an original character who plays a part in the story later on. It's not a big role, but I know some people dislike messing with the established canon. If this sort of thing bothers you, you've been warned. I wanted to get her introduction out of the way so we could carry on with the rest. Yeah, she's the only person who's gotten a description, but she's also one of the only characters who isn't canon. I don't think I need to describe anyone else, because if you're reading this, you probably already know what they look like.

CHAPTER THREE

If you've never had Dim Sum before, oh man. I can't recommend it enough. Even without the crazy Spider-Metabolism you'd still find me here, every Saturday morning in China Town, making a pig of myself.

If Aunt May notices I eat more than I used to these days, she doesn't comment on it. She sits across from me in the crowded -- _packed _-- little restaurant at the wobbly little table we commandeered almost before the last butts had left the rickety little chairs and sips primly at the fresh cup of black tea in front of her. We've only been here for about five minutes, but there's already a crowd loitering near by, ready to spring for our table the minute we stand up. If you think I'm exaggerating how busy these places are, come back and tell me after you've taken an elbow in the eye because you almost had to headbutt someone to get a shrimp dumpling, and I'm not even joking. It's noisy, too, like nothing you've ever heard; everywhere the clatter of ceramic, non stop, as the dimunutive Dim Sum ladies push their trolleys through the narrow aisles, constantly refilling every empty tea cup.

Uncle Ben was really the big chinese fan in the family, but I think it was Aunt May who decided on these weekly outings. She seemed to think that if Uncle Ben was going to eat huge amounts of the stuff anyway, it would be healthier to eat it where it was at least cooked fresh on the spot, instead of delivered by apathetic teenagers in greasy cardboard cartons. I don't know about healthier, but since the first time we tried it, I can't get enough of it, not just the food but the whole atmosphere. I mean, look. It's not even eight in the morning and there are more people here than you might see at an Ihop all day. And everyone is so damn cheerful, smiling and swapping pieces of food back and forth before they sally off to work.

Just don't get in the way of a man and his Jin Deui, and you'll be fine.

I'm a little surprised to be here right now, to be honest. When I got back to the police station last night and saw Aunt May waiting there for me with Mr Urich -- who looked terrified in a restrained sort of way -- I was convinced I was going to be grounded until I was dead, possibly even later. She was practically jetting smoke from her nostrils. All I could do was hold the little bag carrying Mary Jane's "requested" Big Mac in front of me like a shield and put on my best pokey little puppy face. In the end, I think she was just glad to see me with my head attached. And the way MJ had simpered and cried and acted like I'd brought her the Holy Grail had probably helped soften her up, too.

I hadn't expected to sleep at all last night, but I think I was comatose before my head hit the pillow. I'd resisted the urge to call Mary right away -- we hadn't gotten a chance to really talk last night, but if there was any kind higher power up there, she was having a very deep, very dreamless sleep right now.

Still, I don't like that thoughtful look on Aunt May's face right now. She looks like she's turning over some complex problem in her head. I'd better derail her, and fast.

"So are you working late tonight?" I ask, swallowing a mouthful of sticky rice with difficulty. (Probably not the breakfast of champions, but hey.)

"I don't think so." she says absently, setting her cup down on the plate in front of her and toying with the handle. Her wedding band catches the early morning light streaming in through the entrance and seems to wink at me. "I was actually only going to put in a half day, if I could get away with it." She picks up a chunk of Turnip Cake with her chop sticks (something I still haven't mastered, so here I am, the savage with a fork) and frowns at it. "I thought maybe we could go out to dinner with Mary Jane and her mother."

I resist the urge to make a face, taking a drink of scalding tea to hide it. I like Mrs Watson fine -- always treated me great, and the lady is a martyr -- but she's always been a bit . . . frenetic where Mary Jane's safety is concerned. I can only imagine what sort of a craze she's worked up into right now. "That'd be great." I say finally, striving for a normal tone, but Aunt May gives me a knowing look.

"How about you? You're going straight to the Daily Bugle after this, right?" Her tone has a note of forboding that implies there's only one right answer here.

"Yep." I say, giving her my best shiny happy citizen smile. She doesn't look convinced. I think she knows I'd rather stay with Mary Jane, but last night MJ was pretty specific about staying at home in bed. I'll have to settle for calling her on my lunch break. "Saturday is the day I have to archive all the week's back issues, so I'll be pretty busy."

"That was nice of Mr Urich to give you a ride last night. He looks different than I'd imagined." She takes a bite of her cake and points her chop sticks at me. "You should get him something. Say thank you."

"Yeah. I guess I should hurry over to the Hallmark store. They probably have a hard time keeping 'Thanks For Driving Me Into Queens To See My Girlfriend In The Klink' cards in stock. I hear they're popular."

The corner of her mouth twicthes. "While you're there, be sure to pick up some 'I'm Sorry You Were Grounded For Being Such A Smarty' cards. I hear there's a good market for those lately."

Point.

She doesn't seem mad though, and for a while we lapse into a comfortable silence. She raises her eyebrows when I get my third helping of Bau from the bemused looking little old woman pushing the nearest Dim Sum cart, but doesn't comment. Me? I'm just happy to be here with her right now. Between school, Spider-Man, my job, and _her _job, we honestly don't get to spend as much time together as I'd like. Yeah, so I know it's not cool to want to hang out with your family, but I could care less. I love my Aunt and it's not like my social status could do any worse, anyway.

Of course, in typical Aunt May fashion, she waits until I have my mouth full before she says, "I'm thinking maybe we should move out of town."

For a moment, I can only stare at her, my cheeks bulging with steamed bun, eyes enormous over them. She only stares back at me blandly, hands folded on the table in front of her. I struggle to swallow and wind up gasping, eyes streaming. "No fair." I wheeze, fumbling for my cup of tea. "You're supposed to wait until I have something liquid in my mouth if you're shooting for a spit take."

"Peter, I'm serious." she says, a touch of annoyance creeping into her voice. She frowns at me, and in her tidy little black suit for a moment it's like being stared down by a principal or something. "I've been thinking about this for a while, and last night only makes it seem more logical. You can't pretend it doesn't."

The realisation that she _is _serious and she _does _mean business rolls over me with the easiness of a heavy wave, and my heart begins to pound. It's not fair. I'm only fifteen. I can't take this much stress in a twenty four hour period. "Aunt May! Come on. This is crazy. We can't just up and move because some whack job -- "

"We're not talking about someone knocking over trash cans and spray painting garages, Peter." she hisses. "This is some sick freak who gets off by hurting little kids. I don't think I'm being crazy to be worried about this."

"No, I know, but -- "

She slaps the flat of her hand on the table hard enough to make our plates clatter. It's a mark of how noisy this place is that nobody turns around. Or maybe they just don't care. "But what? Do you really understand how close Mary Jane came to being killed last night, Peter?"

God, I wish she wouldn't bring that up. It makes a sick feeling roil up from the pit of my stomach.

"I'm not trying to be mean." she continues. "But this city is dangerous, Peter."

That does it. "The whole damn world is dangerous, Aunt May!" It bursts out of me before I can stop it, and now several people actually do turn around. I'm aware of a dull heat in my cheeks. I hadn't actually meant to shout it.

It's only silent for a heartbeat before the rest of the restaurant returns to business, people turning back to their little plates with exasperated mutters about the crazy white kid, I'm sure. Another Dim Sum girl comes by, this one a tiny woman with a perfect button nose and a smiling mouth, and refills my teacup. She winks at me in a friendly, understanding way as she leaves, and I smile weakly in return.

After a moment, Aunt May sighs. "I know, honey. I just . . . "

"Worry." I finish for her, finally meeting her gaze. "You don't think I worry about you, too?"

"Now why would you do that?"

"Because you're so pretty. Some prince could fall in love with you and whisk you off to his castle, and then where would I be? I'd be out of clean underpants inside of a week."

Finally, she laughs, and the spell of tension breaks. I love the way Aunt May laughs, especially because she doesn't do it enough these days. She sort of rocks back in her chair and throws her hands up in defense, and the sound of her laughter is remarkably young and girlish. "Peter Parker, you remind me of your father more and more every day."

I blink. There's something I haven't heard in a while. "I do?"

She smiles kindly at me. "You do. He always had a way . . . and you look so much like him. It does my heart good to see you turn out like this."

"Oh. Well. That's . . . . yeah." I trail off, dropping my gaze to my plate to hide my embarassment and pleasure. I'm not so good with compliments. Finally, I look up at her. She's still smiling, and she seems a lot more relaxed. "So . . . we're not moving?"

She hesitates only a moment -- not long enough for me to work myself up into a real nice nervous twitch -- and then shakes her head. "No . . . it was just a suggestion, really. I didn't think you'd go for it . . . and besides, I don't feel like surrendering ground to the savages just yet. Are you full, sweetie?"

"Yeah. Kind of a lot of excitement over breakfast. Not good for the ol' ticker." I add in a passable old man impression, complete with wheezing as I pat my chest.

She laughs again, and the sound lifts my heart. "Okay then. Let's blow this joint." she says with a grin, and beckons for the check.

On the sidewalk, we go our seperate ways. She's parked down around the corner and, theoretically, if I'm on my way to work on foot, the quickest way is in the opposite direction, down one of the main streets. Aunt May turns and begins adjusting my collar, stoically immune to the theatrical sighs and eye rolling that I give for accompaniment. "You'll call me when you get there." she says, not a question.

"Yes, Aunt May."

She smoothes my hair back from my forehead -- pretty unsuccessfully. I haven't had a haircut in a while, and my hair flops right back down in front of my eyes. She clucks her tongue a little in disapproval. "Do you need money for lunch?"

"No, Aunt May." I reply, trying to sound as monotone as possible. I'd be a lot more embarassed if we were anywhere else, but the fact is, even on the sidewalk, in China Town, nobody cares much about a scrawny white boy. "And please fuss over me as much as possible in front of people. If you could call Mr Jameson and ask him if I've been eating enough bran on my lunch breaks, that would be awesome."

She smirks a little and pats my cheek. "I might, you know. Mr Jameson has kids. I'm sure he worries, too."

Now this is of interest. "Mr Jameson has kids?" I'd always suspected he was a robot fueled by pure hate. I wasn't aware evil machinery could reproduce. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Eloise in my book club knows his wife." Aunt May says absently. "He's got two kids from a previous marriage, both older than you. A boy and a girl." She smiles a little, and I know what she's thinking; she and Uncle Ben always wanted kids, too, a perfect matching set. "Anyway. I'll call you in a while and let you know if I'll be off early. We'll stop and get Mary and her mother, and we'll all go to Olive Garden."

Swell. Mediocre greasy Italian and stifling motherly worry.

"That would be great." I say instead, smiling because I know it means a lot to her.

She smiles back and pats my cheek before kissing me on the forehead (which still is embarassing, no matter where you are.). She has to lean down a little to do it, but not much. I still hold out hope that I'll end up taller than Richard Simmons. "Okay, honey. You have a good day. Bring home the bacon."

"Yes ma'am. I will suffuse our assets with pork and pork by-products."

I stand and watch her go. On the corner, she turns and waves. Backlit by the morning sun, she suddenly looks younger, and I catch a glimpse of the smiling woman that must have hooked Uncle Ben.

After she's out of sight, I head off to work, just like any normal guy.

Only I do it in spandex.

--

So, webs. Actually pretty snappy to get around.

I'm trying to cut back on using them for regular transportation. Fact is, they're not cheap, even when you get most of your supplies off of bootleg chemical stores on eBay. For all my bellyaching about cash, I'd have a lot more if I walked like a regular kid more often these days.

But the fact is, I'm not a regular kid. I need the practice, too.

And if I'm honest, I think I'm starting to get a little hooked on this.

I'm swinging towards Times Square now, high above the crawl of traffic, and I'm almost giddy with how natural the movements have become. Swing, and release. Catch, and swing. I pump my legs like a kid on a swing set on the downward arc, and for a moment the roar of the wind that whips past my body is almost deafening. It's sharp enough that it stings a little, and tears from the cold prick my eyes, but I barely notice. At the top of my arc, I let go, the momentum carrying me up and forward in a sort of mid-air swan dive. I have two, maybe three seconds of dizzying free-fall before I snap off the next web, catching the end in my fist, and the whole things starts all over again.

I can't help but think I dodged a bullet back there with Aunt May. She may have laughed it off in the end, but I think she was more than a little serious. The food in my belly gives an unpleasant lurch at the thought, and I quickly turn my thoughts ahead to the day instead. I hadn't been lying when I said I had a lot of work to do today. And I suppose I'll have another verse of "When I Was Your Age" courtesy Mr Jameson for leaving early last night. I'm not expecting any sympathy, mainly because I have no intention of telling him why I left. The last thing I need is for everyone to know it was Mary Jane who found the body last night and have them hounding at her door. Everyone is going to find out in time, but let her get as long as she can in quiet for now. I'm sure she needs it.

I need it a little too, but _this _is my quiet time, up here where I can startle the occasional low flying bird, moving so quickly you can hear the air being displaced around me, flying in short bursts between web lines. Is it terrifying? Yeah, okay, a little. But every day I spend more time up here, above everyone else, I think it'd be more terrifying to be trapped down there permanently with them in that hot crush of bodies on every sidewalk, or crammed in another smelling car.

I cut across the rooftop of a local Starbucks, feet pounding across the surface for a moment before I leap again. Sometimes I think I fire off a web blindly -- it's a little frightening to realise now and again that I don't always look at where I'm throwing my next anchor point. But I've never fallen. Not yet, anyway. Some of us aren't so lucky.

Like that girl last night . . . oh man. I still don't know her name, and a part of me is afraid that when I pick up a newspaper today and see who she'll is, I'll recognise her. I don't know if it would be better or worse if I did. And then there's the terrible thought that I never _will _meet here regardless. Somebody I could have known, someone I might have had something in common with, someone I might have liked to laugh with at lunch, and I'll never know.

I know Mary Jane expects me to do something, and believe me when I say I wish there was something I _could _do, but there isn't. Not now, anyway. It's terrible, and it's scary, but that guy is out there and it's up to the police. It's flattering that MJ puts so much trust in me, but sometimes I think she has me confused with Batman as far as high tech tracking technology goes.

Note to self. Utility belt? Actually not a bad idea.

I'm still not entirely convinced last night was real anyway. The end of it all behind the school had me seriously doubting it for a while, and I'm still not sure what I saw. Liz and _Flash_? I guess it's not entirely far fetched -- they don't really hate each other, but then again I never got the impression that they were bosom buddies either.

_Oh god, Parker, don't think about bosoms. Not in tights. The last thing we want is for the anti-Spidey enthusiasts to have another reason to think I'm a creep._

Okay. Then instead think about how I'm going to face Liz on Monday and look her in the eye and pretend I didn't see her jiggly bits being groped by the class neanderthal. I'm quite certain Clark Kent never had to deal with this. Sometimes I wonder who the hell is writing my life. At least it's not important in the scheme of things. Weird, but not critical.

Although, even as I think it, something in the back of my mind is bothering me about that . . .

But before I can catch it, there's a gunshot from below.

Great. Just once I'd like to know what it'd be like to hear a gunshot and respond rationally by running in the opposite direction.

I drop towards the sound, arm reaching out reflexively to catch the arm of a streetlamp and swing me off into a dingy side alley. About fifty feet away, I can make out a pair of figures struggling against the side of the wall. A glance back shows me the alley entrance is empty, and I don't know if it's because traffic is noisy enough that nobody heard what I did, or if they're just doing the jaded New Yorker thing and ignoring it. Either way, it's a good thing. Guns still make me nervous, and I like it better when the only person in the line of fire is me.

I run towards them past overflowing garbage cans, and at first they don't see me. They're of similar height and build, dressed in equally nondescript clothing, and one of them has a death grip on a pistol of some kind while the other has hold of his wrists and has them forced into the air. The man with the gun spits into the other's face, actually growling like a cornerned dog. "Bastid! Fuckin' bastid! You an' my fuckin' Sara! Toldya I'd get you!"

Sometimes my history teacher likes to talk about evolution, and how nice it is we're not swinging in the trees throwing our own feces at each other anymore. There are days when I'm not sure we aren't.

"Max," the other says in a strained voice trying for civility, "come on, just . . . just drop it, look, I told you, nothin' happened, aright?" He puffs a little as Max only snarls in response and tries to bring the gun down. Neither are big men, but it looks like a pretty fierce contest nonetheless. "Jeezus, Max, I'm serious!"

"Bastid!" Max shrieks shrilly again. I can see the cords of his neck standing out with the effort of trying to force his hands down.

"Max!" his friend pleads again.

"Spider-Man!" I say, and smack them both in the eyes with webs when they turn towards me. "Whoops, sorry. I'm not so good in social situations. What's the etiquitte here? Do I go and get a gun to wave around too?"

Squawking in surprise, Max's friend lets go and staggers backward, clawing at his face. His left foot comes down on a piece of rotten garbage and he goes slipping backwards, feet flying out in front of him. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing, because Max chooses that minute to fire wildly, the first bullet passing so neatly above his friend's head that it probably parter his hair like a ruler, and the next missing my left ear with a sound like a wasps' angry whine. "Bastids! Whafuck?!"

"Wow! You sure are fiesty this morning, Max!" I sound less shocked and alarmed then I really am. Which is good, because people don't want to hear a super hero's voice cracking like a fifteen year old boy's, which, once again, I really am. I drop low to the ground and shoot off another string of web, this one splatting neatly against the hand with the gun and pinning it to the wall behind him. "What's your secret? Wheaties? Folgers? I'm more of a CoaCoa Pebbles guy myself."

"Geez!" his friend wheezes. He's rolling on the ground, struggling with the webbing covering his eyes and only getting his hands stuck in the process. His heels beat a panicked drum on the alley floor. "Geez! I can't fuckin' see! Who's -- "

"Take it easy, buddy. Don't worry. I'm not giving your friend any special treatment." To prove it, I web him to the ground, too. I can hear sirens coming now -- someone's finally noticed the shots -- and I feel vaguely satisfied. It's not often that my little detours are drawn up as quickly and painlessly as this. And hey, if 'bastid' is the worse thing I ever get called, well, point for me. "In fact, I'm even bringing some special friends over to meet you guys, you're just that special -- "

"Fuck!" Max cries, head wagging blindly in my direction. "I know you! Fuckin' Spider-Man! I see how it is! You let a guy off who sleeps with his best pal's girl! The li'l people don't get any fuckin' justice!"

I could make a really bad joke about that one, but I won't. "I know, I'm sorry. I'd give you the prize for the Stupidest Individual, too, but honestly? Day's still young, someone else might grab it." The sirens are closer now, and I turn to go, but pause. "Seriously, guys. Fighting over a woman like that? You were really going to shoot him?"

"I'll ventilate ya ya fuckin' bug!" Max screams in response.

"Yeah, yeah. You and everyone else." I sigh, turning to go. As I do, the toe of my boot comes in contact with something small and hard, and it goes skittering and clattering across the ground a few feet away. Startled, I bend down and fish it out of a pile of old newspapers.

It's a cellphone. And somehow, I don't think it belongs to either of my new friends. It's too cute, too compact. Too pink. I'm honestly surprised I didn't notice it before because it was right under my feet, literally, and it looks brand new.

Outside the alley, there's the screech of tires as the police finally make their appearance. Without thinking much about it, I turn and leap up the side of the building, actually running up it briefly in an acrobatic stunt that would make Ringling's salivate. Footsteps are pounding in the alley below, but I'm already moving in the opposite direction, still carrying the cellphone. When I get time, I'll look through the address book and try to find the owner.

Now? I'm late for work. Again.

_Go on. Get it over with._

It's what I think as I enter the Bugle, slinging my backpack in the direction of my cubicle and punching in quickly with the other hand. I'm late -- not really, catastrophically, Rip-Van-Winkle-Late, but still late enough that it looks especially bad after last night, and I think I should probably nip it in the bud and let Mr Jameson get his yelling out of the way. That way I won't have it hanging over my head all day, and I think it might even put him in a better mood too, as though yelling for him is the equivalent of a morning jog for some people.

Besides, Betty Brant is already here, and she's spotted me from across the room. I don't know how much Ben has told her, but her face lights up with interest and she starts to weave her way towards me, hand already outstretched and mouth opening. I'm not yet ready for the interrogation that I'm sure is coming, so I pretend not to see her, hurrying off towards Mr Jameson's office. The door is closed, but some stupid impulse makes me reach for the handle and yank it open anyway, not even thinking about knocking. "Mr Jameson, I -- "

Three pairs of eyes turn towards me from inside the office and I freeze in the doorway. Whoops. Glancing behind me, I see Ms Brant has altered her course, studiously not looking at the open door as she heads away.

"Parker! Even barns have doors! You might have been raised in one, but you still must have learned how to knock." I don't know how he does it, but Mr Jameson manages to look about a foot taller when he's angry. He's standing behind his desk with both fists planted on the surface, glaring at me through the haze of cigar smoke curling up from the cigar clamped between his teeth. "Get out of here!"

"Jonah -- " That's Ben Urich, standing to the left of the door, stepping forward with his hands raised like you might try to ward off an angry dog. "Take it easy, Peter didn't mean to interrupt. I know you're angry, but -- "

"_You _know I'm angry?" Mr Jameson snaps, his attention swivelling away from me. I feel a little bit like a bug under a bootheel must feel at getting a temporary reprive. "What the hell do you know, Urich?! Well, you knew about _this_, but you didn't seem to think you had to tell me, so -- "

"That's not fair and you know it. I only found out last night!"

"Last night! More notice than me, her own -- "

"You were busy, you said it yourself! You had your cell turned off, how was I supposed to -- "

"Don't argue with me when I'm about to feed you your own ass, Urich!" Mr Jameson bellows, the water in a glass on his desk actually quivering a little. And then he spins towards me again, face pale except for two spots of hectic angry colour high in his cheeks. "AND SHUT THAT FUCKING DOOR!"

_SLAM._

I freeze with my hands on the closed door, staring wildly at them both, heart pounding, thinking wildly that if this is what growing up is like, I'll be happy to deal with school and uncomfortable girl social situations for the rest of my life. And then I realise I'm probably on the wrong side of said closed door, because now there are no witnesses.

For a minute, Mr Jameson only stares at me, his jaw working enough that I imagine I can nearly hear his teeth grinding together. I just have time to think that this is how it ends, throttled to death by an old man at my job while Aunt May is making reservations at Olive Garden, when he sighs and slumps a little, finally shifting his gaze out the window. "Parker, you've met my daughter?" he says almost grudgingly, gesturing to my right with the hand now holding his cigar.

"Uh." Is all I can manage again. I turn my head on tendons that feel creaky and old to find myself face to face with a woman I hadn't noticed. "Um. No. Hey." I thrust my hand out automatically, feeling stupid and slow and exasperated. I mean, _come on_. Haven't I met my Crazy Shit Quota for the month yet.

"Hey. Hi." she says mildly, taking my hand and shaking it once, giving me a quick smile.

There's a brief, uncomfortable pause before Mr Urich jumps in, dropping a hand on my shoulder. "Peter, this is Emily Jameson, Mr Jameson's youngest. Emily, this is Peter Parker." He gives my shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. I don't know if he's trying to tell me Mr Jameson is calming down, or his daughter isn't a threat -- I find both a little hard to believe right now. "Peter takes care of our website maintenance."

"Brave kid." Emily Jameson says, that little smile again. As she speaks, she drops me an amused wink, and I finally relax a little, if suspiciously. Finding myself in the room with another of the Jameson clan is more than a little freaky, but at least I can't spot any bolts sticking out of her neck or heavy black stitching. No fangs as of yet. Despite the yelling of just a few moments ago, she looks relaxed and calm. It occurs to me that if she really is Mr Jameson's daughter, she's probably immune to it by now. "Sorry you got blasted, Peter."

"That's . . . that's okay." I say, recovering. "Some people have coffee. I go for the more extreme wake-up." It's a weak joke, but it's better than a squeak, and even Mr Urich gives me a faint smile. "I'm sorry I barged in, Mr Jameson. I just wanted to apologise for being late today and -- "

"Late?" He throws up his hands and sinks into his chair with a groan, the leather material creaking in apparent commiseration. He slumps a little, raising his eyes theatrically to the ceiling. "Who cares about late? All that money, gone, just gone . . . "

What?

"It was only one term, and you know I paid for it myself, Dad." Ms Jameson says patiently in a heard-it-all-before tone. She shakes her head a little and shrugs. "Something better came along. Give it a chance, you'll see."

None of this is making any sense to me, so I take the opportunity to take a closer look at Mr Jameson's daughter. Surprisingly, she's actually pretty . . . pretty. I don't know what I'd expected his kids to look like -- maybe minature Jonahs with little military crop cuts and cigars, boy and girl alike -- but this isn't it. She's probably only in her early twenties, and dressed casually in jeans and a simple blouse. She doesn't look much like her father, except for the dark eyes, and she's got pale, slightly angular features that would probably look a lot harder and more arrogant without that easy smile.

Okay. So his daughter is human. That doesn't prove anything about him.

Mr Jameson is wagging his head from side to side sadly. "'Something better', she says. Where would we be if Elvis had decided to go for 'something better'?"

I'm close enough to Mr Urich that I can see him roll his eyes a little. "Come on, Jonah, that's the worst comparison yet. This has nothing to do with anything like Elvis."

"I don't have side-burns." Ms Jameson murmurs with a small frown, touching the sides of her face. "Or satin pants . . . although . . . "

Mr Urich pats me on the shoulder again, this time prodding me gently back towards the door. "Go on, Peter. You go ahead and get back to work. Thanks for letting us know you're late, and . . . uh . . . don't let it happen again." he finishes awkwardly. He clearly doesn't have a lot of experience bossing teenagers around, or he'd know you usually have to push a bit harder than that. "I'll come by your desk and we'll talk about last night later, okay?"

Ms Jameson tips her hand back and forth in a small wave. "Nice meeting you, Peter." she says warmly . . . and then mouths 'Hang in there' with a roll of her head in her father's direction, which makes me feel a lot better about her.

I'm nearly out the door -- and God, I'm almost relieved at the thought of working through mounds of computer code if the world will stop spinning backwards outside my desk for a while -- when Mr Jameson's head comes up. "Last night?" he says, eyes narrowing a little. "What happened last night? Did something else happen? _Ben_?"

I swear inwardly. The last thing I wanted was to have to explain any of it to Mr Jameson. He'd be pumping me for an exclusive story all day -- which is quite possibly the most unpleasant thought I've had yet this morning. I open my mouth, not even sure of the lie I'm going to give, when my pants begin to play the tune from 007. It takes me a moment to realise it's the cellphone I picked up earlier and not the sound of my brain cracking.

"Sorry. Sorry. 'Scuse me, gotta take this." I lie glibly, backing out of the office with a fake smile and shutting the door behind me, cutting off Mr Jameson's demanding voice. I fumble the phone out of my back pocket and flip it open. "Hey, hello? Listen, I know I found your phone and all, but you just saved me big time, so we'll call it ev -- "

"_Hello? Is someone there??_"

I freeze in mid stride away from the door, a funny, unpleasant tickle running down my spine. It's a woman's voice, quavery and filled with panic as sharp as broken glass. "_Hello??_" she cries again, her voice breaking, when I'm too stunned to answer. "_Oh God, please, is anyone there?_"

"I - I'm here." I manage. I'm standing in the middle of the room, feeling that horrible sensation like the earth is tilting beneath my feet again. "Who is this? Hey, what's wrong?" _This can't be happening_, I think, even though the sudden painful constriction in my chest lets me know it is.

She doesn't respond immediately, but I hear her suck in a deep, quivering breath. "_God, please, he made me call you, I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry! I don't even know you!_" Her voice is spiralling up again, becoming sharp enough that it hurts my ear, but I keep the phone jammed against my head.

"What are you talking about? Who is this? What's going on?" I try to sound demanding, tough, angry, but my voice only sounds uncertain to me.

Suddenly, she lets out a long, low wail that sends the short hairs at the back of my neck standing up at attention, and my eyes widen. _This isn't happening_. I think again, even as she cries out, "_Please, please help me! It hurrrrrrrrrrrrts!"_


End file.
